The Angry Urban Refugees

By ANDREW JACOBS

Published: May 10, 1998

A CENTURY-OLD facade tumbles, tenants are roused from their beds, and reporters arrive to chronicle yet another faltering building in the city.

Encouraged by relentlessly soggy weather, that scenario played out a dozen times in the last several months, from Madison Avenue, where a ton of bricks fell 39 stories, to Times Square, where the front of the Selwyn Theater collapsed under a cloud of dust.

For the residents of 172 Stanton Street on the Lower East Side, the trouble began just before 9 A.M. on Jan. 24, with a low rumble, followed by a loud crash. ''I heard something but didn't think much of it,'' recalled Paula Berson, 68, a book illustrator who lived on the third floor. ''I just went back to sleep. That is, until the firemen began pounding on the door.''

Assured by city officials that their evacuation would be temporary, two dozen residents, wearing housecoats and sweat pants, left behind their money, their pets and a lifetime of possessions. They trudged out into the cold drizzle that Saturday morning and gazed up at their home, a five-story tenement, its face worn but seemingly whole. But out of sight, in the rear yard, sat a mound of bricks that, inspectors later told them, had peeled away from the first and second floors after torrential rains and years of neglect.

At 11 A.M., Mayor Giuliani toured the damaged building, his head unprotected by a hard hat. Mr. Giuliani's visit gave some comfort to the tenants, several of whom remembered the fate of a nearby building, 26 East First Street, six months earlier. After discovering rotted joists, the city lost no time in demolishing that structure, leaving two dozen people homeless.

''In retrospect, we didn't really worry because it wasn't the first time our building had trouble,'' Mrs. Berson said. ''We figured they'd patch it up again and we'd be back in no time.''

By the next morning, though, their building, too, was gone. Ignoring the pleas of tenants and deeming it a danger to public safety, the city had ordered 172 Stanton Street torn down. It took 12 hours for a set of steel jaws to level the structure, which never fell on its own.

''The building was hardly in danger of collapsing,'' said John Shuttleworth, an architect and local community board member who watched from behind police barricades. ''They literally had to tear the thing apart.''

Local elected officials and community activists condemned the city's rush to demolish, saying that the same building in a different neighborhood might have fared differently. ''If it had been at Park Avenue and 72d Street, you can be sure this building wouldn't have been torn down,'' Councilwoman Kathryn E. Freed said.

City officials strongly defend the decision to raze 172 Stanton Street, saying that it was made after careful consideration. ''We only demolish buildings in extreme situations, when people's lives are in danger,'' said Ilyse Fink, a spokeswoman for the Buildings Department, which issued the demolition order. ''We don't do these kinds of things for the fun of it.''

By Sunday morning the only hint that 10 families had once lived on the narrow wedge of land were paintings and posters that clung to a wall. On the sidewalk, a waterlogged heap of shattered furniture and soiled clothing was spread out for tenants to comb. The rest ended up in dump trucks owned by a private demolition company hired by the city.

Still, some things did make it through the night. Marc Friedlander found his guitar, its neck snapped, and Amirum Ahmed recovered a mud-soaked sari. But Stanley and Ann Kleinkopf, residents since 1958, found nothing. ''We lost our wedding photos, our clothing and our beloved cat,'' Mr. Kleinkopf, 75, said, anguish scoring his face. ''I have nothing but the shirt on my back.''

Four months since they lost their apartments, the former residents are still living fractured, uncertain lives. Only 3 of the 25 have found new homes; half remain in shelters and single-room-occupancy hotels. The others depend on the waning sympathies of friends or relatives. Mrs. Ahmed and her five children sleep on the living room floor of a friend's apartment. Francisco Oliver and his son share a one-bedroom apartment with three other relatives, and Milagro Muniz and her daughter shuffle among three different apartments ''so,'' she said, ''we don't burden anyone too much.''

For most tenants, depression and anguish have replaced shock, tears and for some, thoughts of suicide. But one emotion they all share is rage and bitterness. While most blame the landlords, Ruth and Nat Weisberg, for allowing the building to deteriorate, they are far angrier at the city, which they feel bulldozed their homes too hastily, then left them to fend for themselves.

''It would be one thing if we had lost everything in a fire,'' said Mr. Friedlander, a film maker and musician whose entire body of work vanished with the building. ''But to know that the government took away your home makes it that much more painful.''

Trying to Start A New Life at 75

There was little to distinguish 172 Stanton Street from the thousands of other weary tenements that fill the Lower East Side, New York's historic way station for millions of immigrants. The neighborhood is still richly layered with people from successive waves -- Jews, Chinese, Puerto Ricans and Bangladeshis -- and the artists, writers and musicians who came seeking the cheap rents that help them sustain their craft.